The Real Deal
by Uptake
Summary: Sark Season One. Complete.
1. Destruction of an Enemy

**Disclaimer: Obviously, I do not own Alias or anything that may be related to it. Also, the dialogue is the exact Alias script.**

McKenas Cole was going to pay, Sark decided, as he stealthily made his way down the corridor of the FTL building, searching for his quarry. Exactly what he would be paying for was unclear, but Sark somehow felt cheated. Two weeks before, McKenas had somehow managed to con him into accepting the FTL infiltration instead of leading the team into SD-6, as he had wanted to do.

Maybe it was the fact that Sark had been in an exceptionally good mood that evening, or maybe it was the fact that he was slightly drunk, but Sark had ended up allowing McKenas to assume control of the SD-6 op because of his past history with Sloane. McKenas wanted revenge, and that was something Sark could understand.

All of Sark's men had been separated during the raid. Usually, they operated in pairs, but in all the chaos, each man was forced to go his own way. Sark was the only one left who was uninjured and could go after Quan Li. His men, wherever they were at the moment, were probably in no shape to serve as backup. He knew this, but did not care, and he continued to hunt down Quan Li, the leader of FTL, alone. Quan Li would not escape. Of that he was sure.

_Come out, come out, wherever you are_, Sark sang silently as he continued to move from room to room. He had lost Quan Li somewhere between the men's restroom and the elevator. That had been five minutes ago, and Sark could not for the life of him figure out where that sneaky bastard had gone.

One thing that was definitely not helping was his boots. They squeaked softly, but audibly, as he tiptoed down the long black hallway. Stupid boots were going to give away his position. Hmph. Well that's what he got for breaking in new combat training boots on the job. Next time he'd know better.

Sark was so intent on trying to quiet his squeaking boots that he almost missed the shuffling sound to his right. What the hell? Had that door been there before? Adjusting his grip on his gun, Sark reached out and violently pushed the door open. Something lunged out of the darkness, and he was thrown off his feet. Damnit, his boots were going to get scuffed. He looked up to see Quan Li, his target, running towards the stairwell. Collecting what was left of his dignity, Sark jumped up and followed him at a dead run.

Two sets of shoes clattered down the stairwell, echoing loudly. Below Sark, a door opened and slammed, causing him to leap down the last flight of stairs and charge through the door leading to the first floor. He sprinted across the lobby of the FTL building, skirting chairs and jumping over fallen bodies.

Quan Li was just ahead of him, almost at the front doors. Two wounded FTL agents had joined him. Not bothering to aim properly, Sark squeezed off several rounds in quick succession. Blood splattered onto the floor, and he knew that at least one bullet had found its mark. Bullseye.

Quan Li and his men disappeared through the front doors; Sark followed quickly, his heart pounding. He had to admit that he loved the game, the hunt. There was just nothing quite like it. Nothing that could compare, or even come close. Adrenaline pulsing through his veins, Sark fairly skipped out the doors, his gun at the ready. His boots were squeaking more loudly than ever, but it hardly mattered now.

Quan Li stood alone a few yards away. His men were gone. He had been stripped of all his defenses, and he had nothing to bargain with. Sark looked at him and felt the familiar coldness creeping over his body, as it always did at times like this. There was nothing human about him in this moment; there was no compassion or mercy, or anything that even vaguely resembled kindness. He was a killer, plain and simple.

Or so he told himself as Quan Li looked back at him, his eyes pleading for mercy he knew he would not receive. Sark scrutinized him indifferently, and the FTL leader dropped to his knees, knowing his end had come.

Sark raised the gun and pumped out a shell. Then he carefully lined up his shot. For a moment, Sark forgot everything as he looked at the defeated man before him. A burning disdain coursed through him. This man deserved to die. He represented almost everything that was wrong in the world. There were many more like him everywhere, and someday, they would all pay. Every last one of them. But Quan Li was going to pay now. Satisfied, Sark calmly squeezed the trigger. Twice.

Quan Li jerked and fell backwards, blood spraying from two holes in his chest. He was gone. Sark jumped back, but it was too late. A few drops of dark red blood had spattered on his beautiful boots. Damn, damn, damn. Of course they could be cleaned, but it was the principle of the matter. They were _new._ Frowning slightly, Sark stood there in his black fatigues looking down at the dead FTL leader.

_One down, about a million to go_, he thought wryly, momentarily forgetting his fashion dilemma. He tried to feel some sense of fulfillment, but none came. All that was left was a dull sort of anger that was slowly being replaced by the inevitable weariness that followed him wherever he went. There was still so much to do. And besides that, he was going to have to find someone to clean his boots. Or perhaps it would just be easier to buy a new pair. After all, it's not like money was a consideration. He had plenty at his disposal, for whatever he wanted. And he wanted a lot.

The police would be here soon, and it would probably not be wise to stick around. Sark didn't know where the rest of his team was, but he wasn't concerned. They should've been right behind him, but not one of them was in sight. There was no way Sark was going to go back and look for them, though. They were grown men who could take care of themselves (in theory).

Of course, one of them was dead, he suddenly remembered. But the others had probably made it out all right. And if they hadn't, it was no big deal. Those kind of guys were a dime a dozen these days. More proof of a world gone mad, a world gone insane with its desires. But if you can't beat them, join them. Sark had always believed that this one saying could get a person out of trouble time and time again, and experience had proved it to be true.

With that last thought, Sark turned and walked away from the FTL Headquarters. He wasn't really sure were he was going at the moment, but eventually, he would wind up going to Irina. After all, "The Man" didn't like to be kept waiting. But in the meantime, there were more plans to work out, more henchmen to hire, more boots to buy…

ooooooooooooooo

Sark eyed his surroundings reproachfully as he walked aimlessly around the small, dimly lit room. What kind of meeting place was this? There were no famous paintings on the walls, there was no plush carpeting, and most importantly, there was no wine. Good god, the things he put up with for his job. Honestly.

And also, Ivankov, the man he was meeting, was late. Didn't he know it was rude to keep people waiting? What atrocious manners. Sark was inclined to give Ivankov a lesson in etiquette whenever he decided to show up, but he pushed the tempting thought from his mind. It was important that this meeting go well, and Irina would not be happy with him if he messed it up. Irina was trusting him with an enormous responsibility, and he would not fail her. He could not fail her.

The sound of footsteps alerted Sark to Ivankov's arrival. He watched intently as the fashionably late Russian and a few other men entered the gloomy room. _Splendid, my friends have arrived. Let the games begin_.

Sark bit back a rebuke about Ivankov's punctuality, or lack thereof, and greeted them politely. "Gentlemen, welcome. I am Mr. Sark, director of operations." He motioned for them to sit and continued talking. "On behalf of my employer--"

Ivankov raised a hand and interrupted. "Who is your employer? Certainly he doesn't expect us to continue referring to him as The Man."

Sark's eyes narrowed as he silently rebuked Ivankov. _Naughty, naughty, Ivankov, you shouldn't have interrupted me. It's rude. I may well have to teach you some manners before you go. But since I'm feeling generous, I'll give you one more chance to play nice._ Sark answered Ivankov out loud. "I'm afraid my employer's identity will have to remain confidential for now."

Ivankov was visibly annoyed. "This is no way to begin a negotiation." _Quite right_, Sark thought. _Perhaps I should've begun by shooting out one of your knees. I'm sure you would've been much more cooperative then. People are always easier to handle after you've shot them a time or two. Trust me, I would know. _

"My employer sends his apologies, comrade Ivankov, and has authorized me to detail our proposal, with your approval," Sark said crisply, trying to maintain his professionalism. Ivankov was starting to annoy him, and annoying people always brought out the worst in him. Sark could feel the gun in his hip holster press against his suit jacket as he discreetly shifted his weight to his other foot. His insurance policy was just inches from his fingertips. That was a comforting thought.

Ivankov chose the next moment to throw out a completely irrelevant observation. "You seem young for such responsibility," he said, examining Sark intently.

Struggling to keep his composure, Sark sucked gently on the insides of his cheeks. _Yes, well, that's probably because I am, you half-wit_. This man was flirting with disaster. Sark wondered if Ivankov knew exactly who he was dealing with, or if he knew how close he was to getting a bullet in the brain.

He looked at Ivankov for a long minute before moving on, completely disregarding his last statement. "My employer's offer is simple. We will transfer one hundred million dollars into your Caymen Shell Account, number A6112B.

Sark watched, pleased, as Ivankov's face showed great surprise. "How did you know that number?" Ivankov demanded.

_I'm psychic, you moron._ Sark took great pleasure in ignoring Ivankov a second time. "In exchange, you will give us the Rambaldi manuscript you recently acquired in Argentina and whatever analysis you have made of its content.

"A hundred million," Ivankov said. "That's quite an opening offer."

Sark looked at him coldly. "It is a final offer," he said imperiously. At the same time, he was trying to remember if Irina had said he would get a sales commission off this deal. He should. After all, dealing with fools like Ivankov was very tiresome and time consuming. He had to have some incentive, be it money or a new winter wardrobe.

"We both know the Rambaldi manuscript is priceless, therefore it is not for sale," Ivankov informed Sark.

_We'll see about that_. Sark threw in the catch, knowing things were about to get exciting. "I've been authorized to tell you that this offer expires in sixty seconds," he said, feeling a fiendish delight at the shock on all of their faces.

Ivankov gave a forced laugh. "Is this a joke?" He asked. Sark fought the urge to roll his eyes as he answered him silently. _Yes, you imbecile. I set this whole thing up as a joke because I had nothing better to do_.

Out loud all he said was, "Fifty-five seconds."

"You tell your employer, if he ever wastes my time like this again, our next meeting will not be so cordial," Ivankov said, standing and pulling on his coat.

_That's not exactly the answer I was looking for_...Sark turned and nodded discreetly to one of his henchmen. The henchman raised his gun obediently and shot Ivankov and one of his companions. Brief chaos ensued.

Sark looked at the men who were left. They were facing him, their hands in the air. He spoke to one of them. "Congratulations, comrade Kessar. You have just inherited control of the indestructible K-Directorate. You've also inherited what I hope is, by now, a very simple decision. The offer still stands." He scanned his watch. "Unfortunately, you only have twenty seconds left to decide.

He watched, amused, as Kessar calmly sat down before answering him. "We…we have an agreement," Kessar said slowly, with dignity. Kessar was a definite improvement over Ivankov, Sark decided. In fact, K-Directorate would probably thank him for disposing of Ivankov when they learned of his demise. Maybe they would even send him a bottle of wine. Then again, maybe not.

Sark answered Kessar smoothly. "My employer will be so pleased." He was about to say something else, but a noise outside distracted him. Then there was gunfire. He turned quickly to face the window.

A shadowy figure spun wildly across it, and then vanished from sight. Sark rushed over to the window and looked up. A long-haired figure was flaying about, obviously trying to avoid being shot. He watched as the figure whipped out a knife, sliced through the wire, and went flying in a downward arc, crashing through the window of a building across the street.

_How clever_, Sark thought, before turning and bolting for the stairs. He reached the main entrance just as a van came screeching to a halt across the street. Sark didn't reach for his gun though, because he already knew who had been spying on him, and he had no intention of shooting her.

He watched, hidden in shadows, as a brown-haired woman scrambled into the vehicle. The van then departed at a high rate of speed, and Sark continued to watch until he could no longer see it. _Interesting._


	2. Julian Sark's Bad Day

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

Sark sighed deeply and looked out the car window, feeling a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. _Today is not my day_, he thought, as he watched the world flash by.

To begin with, this morning when he had been in the middle of his shower, the water had suddenly stopped for no apparent reason. He had been forced to stand in his shower for a good ten minutes, covered in goose bumps, with suds dripping off his body. When the water had suddenly started again, the cold water had sprayed him full in the face. Surprised, he had jerked back and hit his head on the side of the shower. Hard.

Scowling, Sark reached up and gingerly touched the back of his head. There was a small bump where it had made contact with the wall. He rolled his eyes, which were hidden behind expensive glasses, and continued to gaze out the window.

After he had rinsed off, Sark had dressed in one of his favorite suits, a gray Armani, and headed out the door. The first thing he had seen upon reaching his car was the flat back tire. He had cursed softly, and then set about changing it. Fifteen minutes later, he had stood back and admired his handiwork. Satisfied, he reached for the door handle, and froze. A steak of grease ran up past his elbow. He cursed again, but not softly. He had run back inside, changed into a beige suit, and had finally been on his way.

So here he was, wearing a clean suit and looking impeccable as usual, on his way to pick up the Rambaldi manuscript. Sark anticipated that everything would go as planned. His eyes narrowed slightly. If they didn't, there would be hell to pay. For Kessar, at least. He wondered briefly if Kessar liked codfish, the corners of his lips curling up involuntarily.

The car pulled to a stop. They had reached the marina. Sark smoothed the front of his jacket before deftly exiting the car. It was a lovely day. Looking out at the water, Sark decided that it looked like someone had scattered a bag full of diamonds across the blue-green surface. A bag of unsinkable diamonds, of course.

Sark strode down the dock, right hand in his pocket, followed by two of his men. He spotted the boat he was looking for almost immediately. But there was a problem. It had started moving in the opposite direction. Sark whipped off his glasses and watched as it quickly picked up speed. _You have got to be kidding me_, he thought.

His eyes, which now looked murky green, stared fixedly after the rapidly retreating boat. He couldn't see who was driving it, but he didn't need to. He had suspicions that would be confirmed the next day.

Sark dropped his head slightly as the fleeing boat got smaller and smaller. A soft sigh escaped his lips and a slight frown formed at the corner of his mouth. Irina was not going to be pleased. Irina was not going to be pleased at all. Maybe he wouldn't report back to her immediately. Probably best to give it a few days, knowing Irina as he did. Yes, best to wait.

After all, contrary to popular belief, Sark did place some value on his life, and he knew instinctively that Irina would need some time to cool off. If he returned tonight, she just might kill him, and that would not do. No, that would not do at all.


	3. Fight, Flight, and Capture

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

Sark sat in the shade, legs crossed, and waited impatiently for his contact to arrive. He was usually very patient, as you almost had to be in this line of work, but it was hot outside. Really hot. A bead of sweat trickled down his back, moving slowly along his spine.

Another sweat bead followed shortly thereafter. The sensation was quite unpleasant. Sark was tempted to scowl, but scowling caused wrinkles and he had already done his fair share of scowling in the past few weeks. If his contact didn't even show up, he was going to be fairly upset, to say the least.

The gate to the meeting area suddenly opened. Sark stood up as a woman came through the gate. She was dressed from head to toe in some type of pink and orange material. He watched as she gracefully approached him and stopped a few feet away.

The woman greeted him in Indonesian, and Sark replied in turn, at the same time thinking that her Indonesian was a little too precise for her to be a native. As they both went to take their seats, Sark couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right. He inspected the woman in front of him before speaking. Only her eyes and hands were uncovered. That would not do. "I thought we had an agreement that neither side would have the advantage."

The woman's eyes were blank as she replied in a thick accent. "That is the agreement," she said.

_Her eyes really are exquisite_, Sark thought, momentarily distracted. He focused. "You can see me, I cannot see you," he said, hearing a trace of irritation in his voice.

"You know who I represent," the woman answered calmly, unruffled.

_Do I?_ "Well, according to the broker, you are affiliated with the Raslak Jihad," he said, hoping to obtain more information. The woman nodded, but didn't offer anything else.

"A noble cause to be sure," Sark said, sounding pensive. "And a group I respect for its dedication to the principles of ancient Kunta." He reached down and brought up a black case. He opened it, still talking. "When I heard of this, I volunteered for the assignment because as it turns out, I'm quite familiar with the Kunta use of the latajang," he announced, raising an eyebrow at the woman.

Of course, Sark had only been "quite familiar" with the use of the latajang as of the past two days, but that was just semantics. He was pretty good with the weapon already. "If you are who you claim to be, your skills with the latajang should be unsurpassed," he said, looking at the woman closely.

A look of alarm showed momentarily on her face. _Interesting,_ Sark thought as he screwed his latajang together. The woman spoke, and Sark thought he detected a hint of distress in her voice. "The agreement was clear. We meet and trade."

Sark rose easily from his seat. "And we will," he said smoothly, "If you are who you say you are." He went on. "I've already instructed my guard to stand down. If you want the diamonds, you'll do the same." He wondered if the woman was smart enough to recognize a veiled threat when she heard one.

The woman seemed to be going through an internal battle. After a few seconds, she stood up and carefully took the latajang he offered her. _Good girl_, Sark thought approvingly, watching as she twirled the latajang cautiously. He faced the woman eagerly, noticing that she looked wary. They bowed to each other, and the fight began.

Excitement flooded through Sark's body as he savagely attacked and withdrew, feinted and lunged. It felt good to be using his body as a weapon instead of a gun. Guns could be tedious, and they limited contact as well. Sark wanted to laugh; he hadn't had this much fun in ages.

He kicked the woman in the side, and suddenly he had the advantage. He pressed his latajang close to her face, and in the process got a good look at the woman's eyes. They were wide and slightly teary from pain. An image flashed through his mind, too quick for him to catch. But in that instant, Sark realized that he had seen this woman before.

Sark paid for his lapse in concentration. The woman pushed him back roughly, kicked him, and swept him off his feet. Literally. The woman was positioned over him, her latajang blade at his throat. Something flashed in her eyes, and for a brief moment, Sark got the impression that the woman wanted nothing more than to ram her blade on in.

"Excellent," he told her from the ground. He meant it; he was impressed with her skills.

Sark watched as the woman's eyes showed relief, and then went blank again.

"Let's test the merchandise," the woman said, breathing heavily.

Sark almost grinned as he leapt lightly to his feet. "Let's."

They returned to their seats and prepared to test their products. Sark looked at her almost suspiciously as they exchanged goods. _Who is this woman_? He wondered. _I know her_. Putting the question temporarily out of his mind, Sark began the test on the Rambaldi solution. It was absorbing work.

The woman startled him by speaking after less than a minute. "I am satisfied. Do we have a deal?" She asked abruptly. Sark looked at her strangely. They had barely gotten started…

The woman spoke again, a peculiar urgency in her voice. "Enough. Either we have a deal, or--"

Something was wrong, and this woman knew what it was. Just what did she know that he didn't? Whatever it was, it probably had nothing to do with him, Sark decided. Therefore it was not important. But he did need that solution. He broke in. "Yes. We have a deal."

He set the vial on the table and leaned forward to shake the woman's hand. He would have her name before he left.

Chaos erupted unexpectedly. A black man and several others suddenly stormed through the gate, and they all had their guns trained on Sark and the mysterious woman. "Hands in the air!" The black man shouted.

Sark swiftly grabbed the vial and slipped it into his pocket unnoticed by the men. He raised his hands in the air, and the woman did the same. Sark became aware of how close they were standing. Only a foot separated them. He looked back at the black man, and realized that he knew him. It was Dixon. He wondered if that meant his partner was here, too.

"Where's the vial?" Dixon asked, looking from Sark to the woman. No one said a word. "I said, where's the vial?" He didn't look happy at having to repeat himself.

Sark shifted his eyes discreetly to the woman beside him. He could feel waves of panic rolling off of her. Was this why she had been in such a hurry? Had someone warned her beforehand? He looked into her eyes, which were averted, and saw horror and desperation. And then it hit him. Of course he knew this woman.

Dixon's partner was indeed present, but not in the way he had expected. Sark felt like laughing for the second time that day. Oh, she was very good indeed. What was she going to do? If her partner recognized her, it was over for both of them. _My goodness, we are in a pickle, aren't we?_ Sark thought. _But how to escape…?_

Sark looked back at Dixon, and saw recognition flicker across his face as he stared at the woman. _Uh-oh_. He caught a glimpse of movement over Dixon's head, and a second later he was knocked off his feet by a small explosion. Gunfire broke out from multiple sources.

Instinctively, Sark immediately took off, hoping that Dixon or one of the others would chase him and give Sydney time to escape. He ran nimbly through the crowd, knocking people down left and right. Sark wanted to look over his shoulder, but he couldn't risk losing ground. So he flung himself forward, knowing he had to worry about his own welfare. Sydney was on her own now.

Sark was almost to the gate when he saw someone out of the corner of his eye. He didn't even have time to turn around. Someone shoved him into the gate, and smashed his head against it. _Son of a bitch…_

Then everything went black.

Sark was woken up just seconds later by a pair of Neanderthals. One of them kneeled at his side, forcing him to inhale a foul smelling chemical. The other roughly unlocked his handcuffs, and then the two men hauled him away to a white van. He was thrown in the back, and just before one of the men whipped him viciously across the temple with a pistol, Sark wondered if Sydney had made it out, or had been captured by her own partner.

Then everything went black again.

ooooooooooooooo

Sark sat sprawled in a cold metal chair facing the wall. He had lost track of how long he had been sitting there, unmoving, staring at the wall. It had been at least a day, maybe two. He was bored, and boredom was the worst sort of torture for someone like him.

Of course, he had spent most of his life being bored, and in consequence, had spent a good part of his time trying to find something that would truly challenge him. He had found that something in Irina Derevko. She had become his mentor, and he had become her match.

The door to the room opened, bringing Sark back to reality. He did not look up as someone entered the room. The person drew closer and spoke. Sark finally turned his head to look at the speaker. It was Arvin Sloane. "While this might not seem like a particularly good day for you, you'd be surprised." He said. _I doubt that_, Sark thought, trying not to yawn. He turned his attention back to the wall.

"We have people here trained in torture," Sloane said, moving closer to the glass table. _Really?__ How shocking_, Sark mocked silently, although the underlying threat made him sit up straighter. Sloane continued. "They are so good at what they do; I sometimes take them for granted. But I'm not in the mood for torture." Sark felt slightly relieved. _Good, neither am I,_ he thought. _Unless we trade places_. A smirk almost made its way onto his face.

Sloane went on, sounding very much as though he were talking to an old friend instead of an elusive enemy. "No. There's been enough torture lately." Sloane took a seat across from Sark. "We've been somewhat curious about your employer…Alexander Khasinau."

_Of course you're curious about my employer, but you have the wrong person. And I'm not in the mood to steer you in the right direction_. "Well…you're in good company," Sark said slowly, meeting Sloane's gaze.

"Yes," Sloane said. "We have you." He looked rather pleased with himself, as though he had captured a rare and dangerous creature.

There was really no denying that. "Indeed," Sark said softly, tilting his head.

"I need to find your employer."

Sark looked away for a long second. He needed to tread carefully here. "You raise an interesting point." He paused, planning out his next words. "Given my current state of affairs, it doesn't seem as if my affiliation with Mr. Khasinau is long for this earth." He waited for Sloane's response.

He didn't have to wait long. "We both know you're a very clever young man so we don't need to play games," _But__ I enjoy them so much_. "You're valuable to me. You can help me find Khasinau. I'm valuable to you…obviously." Sloane looked at Sark smugly. Sark would've liked to jump over the table and hit Sloane over the head with a chair, but his arms were handcuffed to his chair. Maybe later. But for now, on with the games.

"I realize I am in no position to demand anything," Sark began, trying to sound sincere and cooperative, "but for the record, I'm far more comfortable talking over a glass of Chateau Petreuse…'82." His eyes gleamed.

Without a word, Sloane got up and walked out of the room. Sark wasn't worried, however, because he was willing to bet that he would have his Petreuse within the hour.

He was right. Less than thirty minutes later, Sloane reentered the room and sat in the same seat he had occupied earlier. A moment later, a man entered with two wine glasses and a bottle of wine. He set a glass in front of each man, poured a little into each glass, and exited the room.

Sark stared at the wine, entranced. He had no doubt that Sloane had laced it with something, but he hadn't had anything to eat or drink since his capture, and the wine was looking exceptionally good to him right now. Achilles heel and all that.

He looked at Sloane and raised his eyebrows, as though impressed. "I must admit, I was only half-serious when I asked for the Petreuse," he said. "I just assumed after what Khasinau has done--sending men into this facility, murdering some of your men--that regardless of what I said, you'd split my belly with a hunting knife." He pictured that scenario briefly in his mind. _Wonderful, I'm probably giving him ideas_.

Sloane looked at him as though he was a naive child. "Do you think that's the kind of activity the CIA engages in?" He asked. The bastard's eyes were actually twinkling.

Sark looked at him, and it was his turn to show amusement. "Not the CIA," he retorted, giving Sloane a penetrating stare. What would he make of that response?

A trace of surprise showed on Sloane's face. There was a long pause before he spoke. "Khasinau sent you to Moscow to negotiate with K-Directorate," he said. Sark raised his head a bit. In his mind, he saw Sydney cut through the wire and plunge through the air. The picture dissolved as Sloane continued to speak. "He trusts you. You know things."

_Yes I do. I could tell you things that would shatter your mind_. Another picture flashed through his head. This time it was of Sydney and a man. They were at the edge of a park, dressed in running clothes and stretching, trying to pretend that they were strangers.

"I suppose I better know things. However, to be clear, my employer hardly tells me everything." That was true enough, Sark thought. For instance, Irina would not let him or anyone else read Haladki's reports from the CIA. They were sent directly to her. Irina thought she had been so clever in that respect, but she had no idea that Sark had read every single one of them, even before she did. It was a simple matter of intercepting them before they reached their destination.

Sark watched jealously as Sloane picked up his wine glass. He swirled the Petruese around the glass before raising it to his nostrils and sniffing it. "Mmm…" Sloane murmured, taking a long drink. Sark knew what Sloane was trying to do, but it didn't help any. He could feel his mouth water as the cool liquid disappeared from the glass. Sloane finally put down the glass and licked his lips. "We will collaborate, you and I," he said, suddenly sounding a lot less amiable than before. "You will lead me to Khasinau. Understood?" He asked.

_Just give me the wine, old man_. Sark nodded at the wine. "May I?" He asked, his voice as smooth as velvet.

Sloane stood rather abruptly and walked over to Sark's side, wine glass in hand. For a second, Sark thought he was going to dump it in his lap. Instead, Sloane raised the glass slightly. "Understood?" He asked, a little sharply.

Sark wanted the wine too much to continue on with his little amusements. "Understood," he said seriously. He was rewarded as Sloane place the glass to his lips, and he was allowed to drink the entire contents of the glass.


	4. Actions and Reactions

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

The sky was black as Sark walked briskly along the cracked sidewalk. He was on his way to the nightclub, where he was supposed to meet Khasinau. He could have taken his own car, but tonight he had felt like walking. The night air was alive with smells and sounds. Some evoked pleasant sensations and pictures while others tried to take him back to people and places he would rather forget.

As Sark rounded a corner he saw the nightclub beckoning him from the end of the street. Wanting to delay the inevitable, he shortened his strides. He was dreading this meeting with Khasinau. Every time he saw the man, which was fairly often, he wanted to put a bullet through his head. Maybe two. Khasinua was lucky that he had so much self-control.

Sark reached the entrance to the club. He breezed by the long line and into the club without so much as glancing at the bouncer. Nobody tried to stop him. They knew exactly who he was, and although most of them didn't know firsthand what he was capable of, they had heard rumors.

Instead of waiting to be seated, Sark settled himself at a small round table for two in front of the stage. The atmosphere was cozy and intimate, and the entertainment would be starting soon. So what was missing from this wonderful picture? Oh yes, the wine.

The waiter hurried over immediately upon seeing Sark's signal. Sark ordered his wine and waited patiently for Khasinau to arrive. Although his mind was busy going over Sloane's instructions, he noticed immediately when Khasinau and several of his men came through the front doors. He stood up as Khasinau approached his table.

"Ah, Mr. Sark," Khasinau said warmly, reaching out for him.

_Oh dear God, I have to touch him_, Sark thought, cringing inwardly. "Mr. Khasinau," he returned, embracing the older man as if he were a dear friend. They separated. Sark felt the familiar urge to reach for his gun. But he didn't.

Khasinau addressed him. "I heard you had some trouble in Denpasar. It's good to have you back safe."

_Yes, I'm sure you're overjoyed_. "Thank you," Sark answered politely.

"Please," Khasinau said, gesturing towards the table. They sat.

Khasinau leaned across the table. "Can I see the ampule?"

Without a word, Sark removed the vial from his jacket and placed it delicately on the table. The unbalanced part of him wondered what Khasinau would do if he suddenly grabbed the vial, unscrewed the lid, and drank it. The thought almost made him snigger. He held it in.

Khasinau was regarding the tiny container with near reverence. "Shall we proceed to my office?"

Sark remembered what Sloane had instructed him to do. "I took the liberty of ordering," he said smoothly.

At that moment, the waiter appeared with the wine Sark had ordered earlier. Khasinau looked slightly surprised. "Yes," he said, "Okay, good idea. We celebrate your success first." The waiter filled their glasses and disappeared.

The music started. Sark and Khasinau clinked glasses and looked up at the stage. The performer needed no introduction, for Sark recognized her immediately. Her hair was a shocking shade of red, instead of the usual brown, and she was wearing an outfit of black leather so tight that Sark wondered briefly how she would get out of it. At this thought, his mind veered off into an entirely inappropriate direction.

Why did Khasinau insist on keeping it so damn hot in here? Sark made a mental note to mention it to him later. Feeling slightly warm, Sark turned his attention back to Sydney, who was slowly making his way towards him. Her smooth, sultry voice washed over him like a blanket. "I know I'll never be the same, since I fell for you…"

Sydney was in front of him now, singing her sweet song. She raised a hand, and Sark did not realize what her intention was until he felt her hand sliding up his chest towards his neck. He stiffened involuntarily; he wasn't used to being touched in this manner. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he had been touched by a member of the fairer sex. Allison didn't count, either. He had been around her for so long that it felt like nothing at all. Sydney's touch was far from nothing. Very far.

Sark tried to remain nonchalant, but feeling Sydney's hand on his body was doing odd things to him. He looked down, hoping that Sydney would not see his flushed face. Why did Khasinau insist on keeping it so damn hot in here?

Sydney's hands lingered for a moment on his neck. Sark felt sure that she was tempted to snap it right then and there. Game over.

Sark knew that Sydney must loathe him completely. After all, he was a heartless killer, was he not? But if he was heartless, what was that thing beating wildly in his chest? If she would just go away, he would be fine…

After what seemed like a lifetime, Sydney's hand left his neck. Sark felt strangely relieved. He watched as Sydney serenaded Khasinau, leaning in close. My Godhow much make-up was she actually wearing?

Khasinau was oblivious to everything around him as Sydney smiled down at him. But Sark wasn't. He watched as Sydney, in one quick moment, flipped the front of her ring around so that it faced backwards.

He continued to watch as she placed her hand with the ring seductively over Khasinau's heart. Or where it would have been, had he actually had one. In his mind, Sark saw a black kettle and a little pot. How did that saying go? He couldn't remember.

Sark observed Sydney with narrowed eyes. He didn't know what she was up to, but he certainly wasn't going to stop her. Sydney finally removed her hand from Khasinau's chest and made her way back to the stage. Khasinau looked over at him and grinned sheepishly. Sark smirked back, resting his chin on his hand. He hated that man.

The song was nearly over. "Well I guess I'll never see the light…" Sydney sat as she sang out the last few lines of the song. Her elaborate costume and clown make up did nothing to hide the sadness or vulnerability that seemed to radiate from her eyes. _I bet she's thinking about the Noah fiasco_, Sark mused. He had read about Noah Hicks in a recent report of Haladki's, and although he didn't have all the details, he could fill in the gaps fairly well. It had to hurt, killing a lover.

The song was over. _I really should tell her how much I enjoyed her performance_, Sark thought as he watched her stand. That song had really suited her.

But Sark never got the chance to approach her. As soon as the song ended, a man quickly advanced towards the table. He spoke to Khasinau. "We have the young man from Los Angeles," he said quietly.

"Proceed," Khasinau said authoritatively, glancing towards the back of the room. Sark followed his gaze, and his eyes landed on a man who was being held in place by one of Khasinau's guards. It was Will Tippin, and he looked scared to death, as well he should. Sark looked towards the stage to see if Sydney had noticed her friend.

She had. A look of shock and horror was on her face. Sydney spoke a few sentences of rapid French into the microphone and disappeared. Sark had no doubt that Sydney would try to rescue her friend. But it wouldn't be easy.

Of course, aiding her physically was out of the question, but later, as Sark stood calmly on the second floor, he only watched as Sydney hauled her traumatized friend along behind her while shooting up the place. Things all around him were being riddled with bullets, and Khasinau was busy yelling out orders (_Be careful old man, you'll give yourself a heart attack_).

But Sark only stood there, seemingly detached from the scene before him. It occurred to him in that moment that this was what it was like to be God, as surely he must sometimes look down on earth and remained untouched.

ooooooooooooooo

Having a blood transfusion did nothing to brighten one's day, Sark decided as he climbed the stairs inside the CIA safe house. In fact, it made one downright irritable. His entire body felt slightly achy, and he was cold. But then, he was always cold.

Sark was warmed momentarily as he pictured the look on Sloane's face when he discovered that he had been outsmarted by his young foe. Perhaps next time they met, Sloane wouldn't be so quick to underestimate him. Let that be a lesson to them all. He was not one to be trifled with.

When Sark reached the second floor, he turned and saw the door to the observation room on his left. He paused before entering the room, still relishing his victory over Sloane. Sark then walked into the room to find a handful of CIA agents sprawled about in various positions. _Excellent_.

One was slumped across a desk, and the rest were strewn haphazardly across the floor. Sark stood there, taking everything in and collecting himself. He looked through the observation window and saw his target. Will Tippin. Tippin was lounging on the couch, and he looked like he was about to die of boredom.

Sark smirked to himself. Tippin wouldn't be bored much longer, and if he died, it most certainly wouldn't be from boredom. Not that he was plotting to kill the meddlesome reporter. He had a feeling that Tippin would be much more valuable as leverage if he were alive.

Smiling grimly, Sark stepped carefully across several bodies that were blocking his path. He rapped his knuckles on the door. He heard Will's voice on the other side of the door. "Oh, yeah. Thirty minutes or less."

_Thirty minutes or less for what?_ Sark wondered as he reached for his gun. The door was pulled open and Sark came face to face with the nosy journalist for the first time. Sark didn't bother to speak to, or even look at, Will. If he had, he probably would have found the expression of stark terror on Will Tippin's face comical. Instead, he raised his gun and aimed it at Will's chest.

Sark didn't hesitate as he pulled the trigger. He only pulled it once. Will yelped, and then slumped to the ground, unconscious.

Without understanding why, Sark took a minute to study Tippin before radioing the team outside. His men could finish up. After all, there was no way he was carrying Tippin to the car. He turned to go, and then paused. His men had already disabled the cameras in the room, but it wasn't the past few minutes that Sark was interested in.

A quick search of the room turned up a surveillance tape for the past eight hours. Sark felt compelled to confiscate it. As he slipped the tape into an inside pocket, Sark had no way of knowing that when he viewed the tape, just hours later, it would make him feel something he had never felt before. Envy. And as he watched an emotional scene between two friends, he would feel obliged to take out his frustrations on Mr. Tippin.

By this time, Sark's men had made it up to the room. Sark exited, leaving them to deal with Tippin.


	5. Iron Will

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

Sark lagged behind as two guards hauled Will down the dark hallway and into a room beyond. He followed them inside and watched as they shoved Will into a chair and handcuffed his hands and ankles to it. Will's face was bruised and swollen from the abuse he had already suffered at the hands of Sark's men. For some reason, Sark hadn't felt like laying a hand on him personally. His stomach had clenched at the idea, which was strange, because usually this party was easy for him. Almost too easy.

The guards disappeared from the room, leaving the two men alone. Sark turned and studied Will composedly. "My employer has instructed me to keep you alive…but not comfortable." He paused briefly, wondering if the dazed man before him was actually absorbing his words. "So, I'll ask you once. What is the circumference? And how do you know about it?"

Will looked up at him, with his puffy black eye, and spoke frantically, as though he couldn't believe this was really happening to him. ""Listen to me, man. There's been a major misunderstanding here."

_Yes, I quite agree. You seem to think that you are allowed to address me as "man."_

Will continued talking, trying to prove his ignorance to Sark, who was already convinced of the fact. "I don't know what the circumference is. Do you understand me? I don't know."

_Tippin__, it doesn't really matter if you know anything or not, although I'm inclined to believe you are telling the truth_, Sark thought. For one second, he considered letting Will just sit there, untouched, until he was needed again.

Then Sark remembered the videotape. In his mind, he saw Will sitting close to a woman on a couch. "I don't love you for what you do, or what you don't do," he heard Will say. "I just love you." The woman looked back at Will with teary brown eyes. "Thank you."

Something flickered inside him. He nodded shortly to Will, then turned abruptly and left the room. He had no desire to watch "the dentist" work on Will.

ooooooooooooooo

Sark reentered the room where his favorite reporter was being held and took out his phone. He wanted Will to hear the call he was about to make. The "dentist" had left the room as soon as Sark had appeared.

He looked at the phone for a minute before dialing. Something was nagging at him. _Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?_ He asked himself. _What kind of question is that? Of course I do_.

Sark sucked on his cheeks as he slowly and deliberately entered the number he wanted. He had never called the number before; he had entered it, erased it, and entered it again, but he had never let it ring. This time he let it ring.

Will was watching him warily, as though he expected him to pounce. But he also looked curious. That curiosity is going to be the death of him, Sark thought. The ringing stopped as someone picked up the phone. "Hello?" The voice was warm and welcoming.

_You can still hang up. No I can't. You don't have to do this. Shut-up. _

"Sydney Bristow," Sark said, letting the name roll smoothly off his tongue.

Sydney answered, sounding wary. "Yes?"

_You don't hav--Shut-up_.

"I'm calling on this line because I know it's untraceable. Listen to me carefully. We have your friend and we plan to kill him unless you do the following."

It was too late to stop now.

"There's a document recently stolen from a nightclub in Paris." _Does that ring a bell with you, Ms. Bristow? _"It belongs to my employer. Now, it appears to be a blank page and it has a great value to him. He wants it back along with a certain container of liquid. I believe you are familiar with the items to which I am referring?" Sark waited, unconsciously holding his breath.

Will was looking at him with remarkable hatred. He almost looked maniacal. This didn't bother Sark though; he was used to getting those looks from people. It was a look of intense dislike mixed with fear.

Sark heard ragged breathing on the other end of the line. After a moment, Sydney spoke. "Yes, I am." Her voice was shaking slightly. Sark marveled silently at how good she was in controlling herself.

Will suddenly decided to break into the conversation. "Syd! Don't listen to him! Don't do anything for me!"

_Damnit Tippin, don't you know it's not polite to interrupt?_ The dentist swiftly entered the room and Will was promptly silenced. The breathing in his ear was quite loud now. Sark thought he heard a muffled sob.

Something shifted inside him. Sark found himself feeling something bordering on anger, but it was aimed only at himself. "You have forty-eight hours. There's an alleyway in Taipei at Ho Ping and Ryuian. Be there Tuesday at midnight." Then he hung up abruptly, before he had to hear anything else.

ooooooooooooooo

Sark stood with the dentist in one corner of the torture room. He leaned forward as the Asian spoke quietly. "If he knew anything about the circumference, we would have heard it by now."

"I suspected as much," Sark sighed. "Prepare Mr. Tippin for the exchange." Sark glanced over at Will as he spoke. He grimaced inwardly at the blood that flowed freely from the reporter's mouth. The face was a grotesque mask on a man who was nearly unrecognizable.

The sadistic dentist smiled as he prepared to follow Sark's order. Sark left the room. He had his own preparations to make. He was almost to the end of the long hall when a violent outburst stopped him in his tracks. "One in five, you little bitch! ONE IN FIVE!"

Sark spun on his heel and sprinted back towards the torture room, but instead of entering it, he ran into a room to the right of it. He looked hurriedly through the one-way glass.

The two guards had been knocked to the floor, and the dentist was on his knees, a needle sticking out of his neck. Will was standing over him, laughing like a madman. "ONE IN FIVE," he shouted. Sark watched in amazement as the guards scrambled to their feet and seized the crazed man.

Will was still laughing insanely, and as he was led past the dentist, he kicked him savagely in the side. The dentist gasped for air as Will was pulled from the room. "ONE IN FIVE!"

Feeling stunned, Sark stepped away from the window. He had never seen anything quite like that before. It would appear that he had underestimated the young journalist. He wouldn't make that mistake again. Will Tippin, despite appearances, was a possible threat.

Sark glanced into the torture room again. The dentist was lying on his back now, and he wasn't moving. Sark's expression didn't change at all as he looked at the body on the floor. He never had liked the dentist, anyway. In the beginning of his career as International Bad-Ass, Sark had almost lost a few teeth to the dentist himself. They had managed to come to an understanding after Sark had nearly strangled him to death with a piece of plastic tubing.

Standing at the window, Sark recalled Will's last words. One in five. He grinned wickedly and walked out of the room, hoping that the next time he saw the dentist, he wouldn't be walking.


	6. Father Substitute

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

The white limo had been a good idea, Sark thought approvingly, as the limo rolled quietly through the dark streets. He wanted to make an entrance, seeing as this was his first "real" face-to-face with Ms. Sydney Bristow. The luxurious limo was merely for intimidation purposes, of course, as was his all-black ensemble. He wanted to show that he was in control.

Will Tippin was sitting across from him, looking dazed. He had a guard on each side. Sark did not want a repeat of Will's earlier actions. Of course, there were no needles anywhere, but you could never be too careful.

Sark studied Will discreetly (_When had he become Will? It was Tippin. Just Tippin.)._ Most of his bleeding had stopped, but Sark saw a few small red drops fall onto the plush interior. He felt a trace of irritation, and then he almost smiled as he remembered something. The limo wasn't his.

The limo rounded a corner into an isolated alleyway. Sark's heart lurched. Obviously, the driver had turned too quickly. Sark looked through the windshield. A dark sedan was at the other end, bright lights on. A dark figure stood by the side, and it took Sark less than a second to realize that it was not Sydney Bristow.

Sark felt strangely disappointed. He had spent an obscene amount of time getting ready for this meeting, (for intimidation purposes, of course), and she hadn't even shown up. She had sent her father instead.

_Oh well, I suppose one Bristow is just as good as the next_. Sark gracefully exited the vehicle and approached Jack. "Jack Bristow doing his daughter's work. There was speculation that you might make an appearance tonight." That much was true. Irina had hinted that he might turn up.

Jack remained unruffled. "If you're not comfortable with me, we can waive our business for the night and say good-bye." _Like hell. I'm not getting stuck with Will. I mean, Tippin_.

"Are you comfortable?" Sark asked. "Do you feel comfortable trading priceless documents for a low-grade reporter?" Might as well get in his cheap shots at the prying reporter while he could.

Jack tilted his head to the side. "You should read Tippin's stuff. It's not so bad," he said lightly.

_I'm sure_. But enough friendly banter. "Let's see the artifact."

"Let's see Tippin." _Touché._

Sark turned and gave a short nod towards the limo. The back door opened and Will emerged, being held up by one of Sark's men. As the two men came closer, Sark studied Tippin with fresh eyes. He still had quite a bit of blood on his face, his clothes were filthy, and his head was wobbling so much that Sark wasn't entirely sure that it was still attached. He hoped fervently that it would stay in place, at least for the time being.

Sark looked at Jack to see how he would react. Jack slowly took in Tippin's battered appearance. He blinked and said nothing.

_Best to get on with it_, Sark decided. "Shall we?" He asked.

Jack nodded slightly and opened a briefcase on the hood of his sedan. And there it was, the missing Rambaldi page. It was priceless, it was precious…It was exposed.

Sark looked at Jack sharply. "You've exposed the page," he said, sounding slightly outraged.

Jack stared back, and Sark thought he saw a trace of amusement in those grave eyes. "You would have done the same thing." _Good point._

Sark gave his full attention to examining the page. It didn't take him long to conclude that it was authentic. "The parchment fibers are consistent with the other Rambaldi documents," he said slowly. "Yes. We have a deal." Sark suddenly remembered that he had said those exact same words to Sydney not too long ago.

Sark turned and nodded again. His henchman brought Will forward. Sark carefully closed the briefcase and addressed Jack, a smirk turning up one corner of his mouth. "Please pass along to your daughter how much I enjoyed her stage show in Paris. She has a marvelous singing voice." He had intended to deliver the message himself, but seeing as how she wasn't even here…

Smirk firmly in place, Sark turned and walked back to the limo. He slid into the back seat and shut the door. Sark watched Will and Jack intently as the limo slowly backed out of the alley. Will was standing just feet from Jack. Sark couldn't see if they were talking or not, but a second later, Will did something that shocked Sark. He hugged Jack. And even more shocking, Jack hesitantly laid a gentle hand on Will's back.

_Will wonders never cease_? Sark thought as the limo rounded a corner and the alleyway disappeared from his sight. Sark continued to mull over the scene he had just witnessed for a few miles. Then his thoughts turned to more pressing matters. Such as, why had Ms. Bristow sent her father as a substitute? And better yet, where was she now?


	7. Aftermath

**Disclaimer: See chapter one.**

The next few days passed swiftly. After the lab was flooded, (by a certain blue-haired spy), things began to crumble at an astonishing rate. Kasinauh was dead, Irina was M.I.A., and the organization was in complete disarray.

Sark scurried about frantically, picking up the pieces that were left and dealing with employees who were concerned about Irina. They were unwavering in their loyalty, and they were sure that something awful had caused Irina's disappearance. "She must have been killed," some said. Others insisted that she had been abducted.

The theories and rumors that were circulating among the intelligence world grew more outlandish with each passing day. Sark encouraged some of the more wild rumors, simply for his own amusement. He believed none of them though, because he alone knew the truth. Irina had not been killed, or even kidnapped. She was just gone.


End file.
